The Wistful Incense
The vial was no larger than a child’s thumbnail, cut from dark, unpolished glass that felt slick and cold against Elias Vane’s palm. He held it up to the weak morning light filtering through the workshop’s dusty windows, watching the powder inside shift like ground charcoal, a substance that seemed to absorb the brightness rather than reflect it. This was the Wistful Incense, the final payment...
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